Under the Sign of the Broken Mare
by NoreNeither
Summary: London, 1864. Two men, who once were friends, are led through a series of events they hoped never to live again. SPN Victorian!AU, involving alchemy, Hunters, demons/angels and a quest for immortality (which, as it turns out, is actually a very Not Good Thing). Murders, horror, mystery and things of that ilk. Castiel and Dean are the primary protagonists, many other characters too.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Under the Sign of the Broken Mare  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Pairings/Characters:** Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, Sam, Pam, Jo, Bobby, various angels/demons. More will be introduced as the story putters along.  
**Spoilers:** None, AU  
**Warnings:** graphic death, terrible understanding of Victorian England and London geography, probably torture and murder and other unpleasant things in later chapters, glaring OOC-ness from everyone involved  
**Word Count:** 2,000+ (this is a WIP; I have 10k atm, but will edit before I put it up)

**A/N:** I don't even know. I just have an abiding passion for Victorian gothic horror, and somehow that fused itself with my Supernatural obsession in my head. Short installments (I don't know why) *hangs head in shame*

Completely unbeta'd. (sorry)

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The lamps were well-lit by the time Mr. Castiel Godfrey had decided to take his evening walk. That is to say, it was far past ten, at least; were it before ten, Mr. Godfrey would still be in bed, quite asleep. He had taken to sleeping during the day by accident some twenty years ago, and those who knew him became familiar with his peculiarities and were quite content to let him be. His acquaintances, however, were few indeed.

It was half-autumn to winter, and the fallen leaves were just beginning to clog the gutters with partially-rotted damp litter from the wintery rains that had started to fall. The night was dry but overcast, the rain of the day having besodden the cobbles, taking a great deal of the ring Godfrey was expecting from the clack of his hobnailed shoes. No matter; the timbre was different, but there was no mistaking the shine of the top-grain Italian leather in the gaslight of the street. His gate creaked as he pulled it behind him.

Few souls had the fortitude to venture out on nights like this, and thus Godfrey encountered few folk on his walk, and those he did were not the sort to which to tip one's hat in passing. Rather they scuttled past, bottle or some other in hand, eyes averted, the faint smell of ethanol lingering in their footsteps. Godfrey did not mind. Their company was frosty, but the mere fact that they existed was comforting to him. Another mightn't have seen such a thing as comfort in the gait and posture of such men, but their passing brought something of a smile to Godfrey. It was a smile few would have recognised as such, but nonetheless a smile it was.

His path through the city was winding, but eventually Godfrey's feet led him to a place as familiar to him as his own mother's hands. The alley was cramped, and the whitewash of the establishment was all but worn away, but the shuttered windows glowed with warm firelight that beckoned him from the autumn chill. A sign bearing a saddled mare—crudely painted with text none—hung above the lintel, rusted nails affixing it there that night as they had for many decades prior. Godfrey entered.

Memories flicked across his sight as he crossed the threshold of the room, and skittered away as fleetingly as they had appeared, back to the corners of the room. He blinked away the past and stepped into the present, drawing a three-legged stool close to the bar. He did not remove his hat. With a crook of the patron's finger the keep nodded his understanding, and laid down a glass tumbler for Godfrey, tawny port within. Godfrey quickly took it with a gloved hand and drunk the entirety of the liquid with one gulp.

'Where is the wisdom in drinking wine for breakfast?' said a voice from behind Godfrey. A hand steadied his shoulder as Godfrey moved to turn in his seat. 'Lesser men dine at regular hours, but you and I are not lesser men, are we old friend?' The owner of the voice and hand felt the man tense beneath his fingers at the word "friend". Silence fell in the Broken Mare. 'Then again,' the voice continued, 'You have always liked your sweeter wines at so early an hour. It never ceased to bemuse me as to reasons why you took girlish fancy to _Vinho do Porto_, despite its expense.'

'Winchester,' said Godfrey. It was no question, and was possibly the first word he had spoken in days. It had a heaviness to it that weighted the air and make the barkeep shiver slightly as he tried not to look at the two men. The singularity of the word balanced the prattle of the other man with even sobriety.

'Castiel,' said the voice amiably, as the owner pulled a stool to the bench. He was tall, with greying tussock-brown hair and a face that was deceptively young, at odds with his somewhat mellow voice, the voice of a man older than he appeared. He was well-dressed, but not flamboyantly so—simple, dark colours, akin to the clothes of Godfrey that would not have been far out of place twenty years prior. There was no hat in sight. 'It has been much too long, my dear man. I'm surprised you recognised me at all.'

Godfrey did not look at him immediately, but rather etched lines in the waxy bar with the severity of his stare. 'How could I not,' he said finally. His tone was curiously without inflection.

The man Godfrey addressed as Winchester merely gave a gesture that lay somewhere between a shrug and a sign of acknowledgement. 'Quite right,' he murmured.

It was then that Godfrey turned his gaze to the man directly. 'What do you want,' he said in the same edgeless voice. His tone may have been emotionless, but his eyes were burning with contained rage.

The man called Winchester, however, didn't see that depth, or if he did he paid it no heed. His eyes flickered to the keep, quickly around the Broken Mare, and finally to the door before coming back to Godfrey. For the first time his features wore an expression other than the mild-mannered geniality he had maintained since he'd stepped into the establishment. It was mild still, but held a tinge of something grim, perhaps even an echo of fear. 'Not here,' he said, standing. 'Follow me.'

Godfrey frowned then and, having placed a few coins on the bar, followed Winchester from the firelight of the Broken Mare, clear unwillingness in his tread.

The two men did not speak as one followed the other, and the quiet between them was almost painful. Winchester walked ahead with Godfrey behind, and the tension between them was tripwire-taut. Winchester's steps were steady as he led Godfrey through the streets, surety in his stance.

'Bow's?' growled Godfrey as they crossed the threshold into the cemetery. They had walked nearly a ha'mile, all the way from South Hackney.

'Softly-softly, Castiel,' said Winchester, head unturned. 'We would not want to wake the dead.' His dark overcoat blended in so well to the night that all Godfrey could make out was the dull shine of his blond hair.

Godfrey caught his arm and spun Winchester to face him, quick as you please. 'State your purpose, boy,' he said, his voice low and sure, but no less threatening for it. There were no lamps in the cemetery, yet Godfrey perfectly saw Winchester minutely arc one brow in reply. Curious—it was a habit he had forgotten. 'You appear from nothing after these long years, pull me to hallowed ground—why? What more could you possibly want from me?' It was the most Godfrey had spoken in a long time.

Winchester didn't say anything, but pointed across to his far left. 'Robert Singer.'

'Robert is dead?' said Godfrey.

A ghost of a smile crossed Winchester's face. He didn't reply, but pulled himself from Godfrey's grasp and strode over to a grave. It was no more that a couple of weeks old by the freshly-turned nature of the earth, and was marked only by a simple wooden cross. He drew a shovel from behind a neighbouring headstone and extended it to Godfrey. 'Would you do the honour, Castiel?'

'You're going to disinter him?' asked the other man, slight disgust lacing his voice. 'The dead should stay buried, Winchester.'

Winchester ran a hand through his light brown hair with a sigh. 'Fine. I shall do it.' He shrugged out of his chestnut-coloured overcoat and his jacket and laid them over a tall headstone a few steps away. Without further ado he rolled his sleeves and began to dig.

'Wait,' said Godfrey. 'Why are you doing this?'

Winchester stilled his shovel. His expression was impossible to read as he stared at Godfrey. 'No words can convey this. Not Bobby. This is something you must see in the flesh.'

If Godfrey was unsettled by this reply, he didn't show it. Rather he stood underneath the gnarled yew tree by the gravel path, still as rock, saying not a word.

For nearly three quarters of an hour there was no sound in the black night except for Winchester's exertion and his shovel moving the earth. He was surprisingly adept for a man digging in almost complete darkness; the sod was neatly piled to one side by the time his shovel hit a dull thud which spoke of the damp pine of a coffin. 'Castiel,' he said, gesturing to Godfrey. The man had not moved in all that time, not a hair. He had been so still anyone watching would have sworn he wasn't even breathing. Not that anyone was watching in such darkness. 'Please fetch me my coat.'

Godfrey did as Winchester bade. From a deep pocket the light-haired man withdrew a bundle of tapers and a few long matches. He handed his coat back to Godfrey. With a grunt he pulled the coffin lid free of the main box with the pointed end of the shovel head and threw both out of the grave. An overwhelming stench immediately permeated the air. Winchester wrinkled his nose slightly, and lit the tapers above the grave. It was not a full six-deep—it was barely four-and-a-half feet, if anything.

Godfrey blinked rapidly at the sudden illumination. The flames of the lit bundle were not over-bright, but from the gloom prior, it was almost blinding. It threw Winchester's face into sharp focus. 'Behold,' he said, gesturing down to the grave with the tapers. 'Mr. Robert Singer, our lord and master.'

The body that lay before the two men was not fully decomposed, but very clearly rotting. Its skin was a bluish-black, and its grey-brown beard and hair had partially sloughed off. But that was not of interest to the men, nor did it deter them in the slightest.

'Look at his face,' said Winchester in a low voice. 'Look at his eyes.'

Godfrey grimaced. But within his expression there was also just a sliver of fear. 'What eyes,' he said. 'They have been cut out.'

Winchester nodded. 'Exactly,' he said softly. 'His tongue too.'

Godfrey closed his eyes. 'Was he strangled,' he said.

'Yes. Before you ask, Cas, he was drained of most of his blood, and he is missing his heart and his left kidney. And see his arm here?' he said, pointing. 'Three parallel slices, seared to the bone.'

For the first time that night, Godfrey looked the other man directly in the eye. 'How do you know this.'

'I hear things, Castiel, things no-one else does,' he said. 'When his body was… found, I was contacted before his flesh was cold.'

Godfrey's lip curled. 'Yet you waited this long to tell me.'

Winchester kneed himself up out of the grave, eyebrows knit. 'It took me this long to find you, Castiel!' he said angrily. 'Last I had heard, you were living in Stepney, not _Hoxton_. I had, after all, never anticipated us meeting again under such circumstances. But do you now see why it became a necessity to find you?'

Godfrey turned away. 'I had hoped never to set eyes upon you again,' he said.

'Well likewise, friend,' said Winchester bitterly, leaning on the shovel. 'It has been twenty years. I had thought we were done, but clearly not. It has followed us even now.'

'There is no other explanation, then,' said Godfrey. It was again no question, but a statement of fact.

Winchester dropped his shovel on the ground. 'The evidence is incontrovertible. No-one else knew, save us both. There is no question.'

Godfrey dipped his head, his back still turned. 'What can be done now?' he said quietly. 'We just wait patiently to die? To be found by our own mistake?'

'Castiel, you would never surrender that easily,' said Winchester, scoffing slightly. 'The very idea is absurd. You cannot have changed that much. I have a plan, of sorts.'

Godfrey jerked back around at his final words. His own voice had lost a good deal of the emotionless edge, as if he was getting used to using it again. 'Of sorts? How exactly are we supposed to escape this?'

Winchester reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a heavily damaged piece of blotting paper and handed it to Godfrey. It bore a scrawled name, barely legible, written in brown ink. 'Pamela Barnes,' he said simply. 'We find Pamela Barnes.'


	2. 2: Of Things Not Spoken

**A/N**: Not proof-read, sorry. As usual, unbeta'd.

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_Chapter Two: Of things not spoken_

'So… Hoxton? When did you move here? I thought you had quite the fondness for that tiny flat over the butcher's in Stepney.'

The gate shrieked in protest as Godfrey opened it. He turned to face Winchester. 'Quiet,' was all he said before stalking down the short path to the house.

Godfrey's house was Georgian-built, and had previously been presentable. However the intermediate years since its birth had not been kind to the severe, black-brick house, and had aged it before its time. It was on a short street off the more southern end of Kingsland Road, in the little turn it took round the corner of the cobbler's, Stephen & Sons. Once, it had been part of a line of identical houses, but progress for the sake of progress had driven the residents away, and drawn the cabinet and sitting-room-table-makers instead. They added, pulled down and built around so much that Godfrey's residence was the only façade that still resembled its original self. The lack of real neighbours was a fact that was not lost on Godfrey. The antique store to the right was all but closed, and the building to the left was a somewhat shady pipe-maker's dealership. Which suited the man rather well, all in all.

After allowing Winchester into the entrance hall, Godfrey triple locked the door behind him.

'You never used to be so paranoid,' remarked Winchester lightly, which earned him a nasty look.

'Wipe your feet,' said Godfrey, walking into the sitting room.

By the time Winchester had hung his coat on the stand, Godfrey was standing with his back to the door, stoking the embers of the fire back to life with a blackened iron poker. Winchester sat himself down on the paisley divan.

'This house is of a somewhat higher calibre than the old flat,' he said. 'Did you murder someone for it?'

Godfrey turned around. 'Of course not.'

'How did you afford it, then?' said Winchester.

'I fail to see why it matters.'

Winchester nodded. Other men would have slunk away in the face of his obduracy, but Winchester was made of hardier material.

Godfrey sat opposite him. 'You mentioned one Pamela Barnes. Who—or what—is she.' It was a question said as though it wasn't.

'Frankly? I have no idea. My best guess, however, is that she is a witch.'

Godfrey bared his teeth. 'A on why _this_ is your fantastically brilliant idea.'

Winchester ran his hand through his hair. The only light came from the fireplace, giving it an eerie orange-red cast. 'It is not my idea, I can assure you of that. It is—was— Bobby's. I had not seen the man in some six and a half years, and I then I wake to this scrap of paper being thrust in my face by a dirty urchin. He says that some man by the name of Singer wants to see me, needs to tell me something of the utmost importance. Naturally, I had no idea where Bobby was. You know as well as I that he cannot be found unless he is actively trying to be. By the time I had finally caught wind of him, I was being informed of his death. Make of that what you will.'

Godfrey frowned. 'That does not necessarily mean it was Robert who sent the note for you,' he said sceptically. 'And what makes you believe that she might be a witch? Your evidence is thin at best, awfully convenient at worst.'

Winchester nodded again, his expression serious. 'I thought that also. But I found where Bobby was living. I scoured his house, and under his mattress was a sealed letter addressed to someone named "Pamela".' He pulled another letter from his jacket and handed it to Godfrey. 'Check it yourself. It is Bobby's handwriting. There can be no mistake of that.'

Godfrey opened the letter and read the distinctly understated handwriting:

_Do not think that I do not know who you are and what you are capable of. You are a whore of the devil, and this I know. We shall come for you, and end all the pernicious evil that you are. Your days are numbered._

_—R.S.S_

'Robert Steven Singer,' he muttered. 'It was him.' Godfrey looked across to Winchester, his blue eyes dark with some intense, shuttered emotion. 'But why? Why would he hunt a witch by himself? And who is "we"?' he pointed at the letter. 'Since when did Robert not work alone? I understand none of this. It is completely incongruent.'

'I know,' said Winchester. 'No-one changes that much, not even in twenty years. There was almost no-one Bobby didn't hate. It was a miracle he tolerated us for as long as he did.'

The corner of Godfrey's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. 'Quite,' he said and stood up. 'Excuse me, would you.' He strode out of the room. A few minutes passed before he returned, carrying cold sausage and half a loaf of sourdough bread on a board. His other hand held a full bottle of penny gin, topped with two glasses. He set them down on the table beside his high-backed, red leather chair and poured both himself and Winchester a large glass. 'I foresee this night to be a long one.'

'Well, at least we shall have the finest alchemy there ever was,' said Winchester with a nod, raising his glass ever so slightly. 'Hideously simple and common a poison, but all the better for it.' Godfrey murmured an agreement and they both drank.

Morning found the two men both considerably more drunk than they had been the night before, and significantly more tired. Despite that, though, they both moved with the ease of the oft-drunk, and did not stagger as they walked. The clock in the square had barely reached eight as Winchester and Godfrey entered the St. Michael's church. It took Godfrey a minute to realize that it was Monday morning—he was usually holed up in his red-leather, high-backed chair by this time, his blackout curtains shutting out the early morning light as he read by the fire. He was not, as they say, a morning person.

Winchester was genial as ever as they approached the vicar, despite his intoxication.

'Father,' he said, 'Would it be too much of an inconvenience to ask you a question or two?'

A brief look of bemusement crossed the vicar's face before he spoke. 'Gentlemen, I have barely even opened the chapel. What brings you so early in the day? Prayer?' He looked the men up and down and raised an eyebrow. 'For some reason I doubt it.'

'Are you, or are you not, Father Gabriel Lokirsson,' said Godfrey. It was surprising he managed to get the words out through his scowl.

The vicar blinked. He was younger than the two men, with golden hair and wide, jewel-toned eyes which lent an element of boyishness to his demeanour, somewhat at odds with his clerical cassock. 'Lokirsson… Yes, that _is _me. Why are you asking?' he spoke sharply, suddenly on guard.

'We knew your father, Father,' said Godfrey, his frown lessening a little at his own quip. 'We need to know something you—and only you—will know.'

Lokirsson's eyes widened in alarm. 'You knew my father?' From seemingly no-where, he produced a penny knife, and pointed it at the men, arm unnaturally steady. 'Who are you?' he said in a low voice.

Winchester raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. 'We were not that kind of "friend", Gabriel. We simply mean that we know what he did, the next Father Lokirsson in a long line. He… helped us. He was a witch-hunter, am I correct? Am I also correct in assuming he passed his—talents—to you?'

Lokirsson narrowed his eyes, and he searched the faces of Winchester and Godfrey for a tense second before giving a slow nod. Winchester smiled mildly. 'Alright then. My name is Dean Samuel Johnson-Winchester, and this here is my friend Castiel Godfrey. We need your help.'

'I am not your friend,' muttered Godfrey angrily. Had he not been drinking, he would not have spoken his mind so freely. 'You lost that right a long time ago, _Dean._' Winchester waved him away with a flick of his hand.

Lokirsson nodded again, but did not stop eyeballing the two, or lower his knife. 'This way,' he said, jerking his head. 'Anyone is wont to listen out here.'

He led them to a private room up a flight of stairs through the back of the chapel, to a room that appeared to have once been an attic, but now seemed to double as something of a private library. It consisted of old stone and wooden slatting, thus Godfrey assumed it was a part of the ancient medieval church, most of which had been knocked down in the eighteenth century. He was silently pleased—older sacred ground was safer, in the end, even if he didn't particularly like it personally.

'I apologise for this mess,' said Lokirsson, dropping his knife on the desk and hastening to straighten some of the many piles of books that lay on every flat surface in the room, save the floor. 'Owning to my winning looks, my guests usually aren't here to marvel at the decor.' He grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 'I should probably stop it, but you know, I just get on with it and then forgive myself.'

'You're sarcastic for a vicar,' said Godfrey dryly, examining an oddly-shaped brand that was propped against the wall near the hearth. The shorter man laughed easily, his manner relaxed now he knew there was no threat.

'So,' said Lokirsson, turning to the other men. 'How am I to aid you?'

'We need to find someone whom we believe may be a witch,' said Winchester.

'Vague,' said Lokirsson. 'Who is this hypothetical witch?'

'The name we were given was Pamela Barnes.'

Lokirsson paled and sat down abruptly. 'You jest,' he said.

Godfrey shook his head. 'Heard of her, then?' he said, raising his eyebrows in questioning.

Lokirsson swallowed heavily. 'Know of her…?' he chuckled faintly, no mirth in his laugh now. 'She's a fae story. Used to scare young children.'

Winchester shrugged. 'I had never heard the name. Castiel?'

'Neither I,' he said in reply.

'No, you misunderstand,' said Lokirsson. 'Pamela Barnes is Hunter mythology. Only those raised to hunt witches are told of her. She is… how do I say it… the antagonist in a great many Hunter stories.'

'Oh?' said Winchester. 'How exactly is she so terrifying?'

'She was a witch,' said Lokirsson grimly, 'A maid to a baron, or so the legend goes. She had the most beautiful long ebony hair and was sought after by all men who set eye on her. Until she met a man—a witch-hunter—who desired her above all that is proprietous, and performed unspeakable acts upon her person, against her will. They say her eyes turned white then, blank of soul, and the shine went from her hair as she made her deal with the Devil. She practiced witchcraft from that day on, killing all who stood before her, and garnering satanic converts as she moved from one village to the next. They say she was captured and was repeatedly burnt at the stake but was so vengeful that she refused to die, so determined was she to see all Hunters burn for that man's crime against her. She used to seek out witch-hunters and hang them with a rope made of her own hair.' Lokirsson bit his lip. 'If I ever did anything wrong, she was the threat against me—"Be good, or Pamela Barnes shall find you and hang you with her ebony-hair rope." That is what my father used to say.'

'A damn lurey Baba Jaga,' growled Godfrey. 'Just what we need.'

Lokirsson shook his head. 'No, she was _beautiful_, not like Baba Jaga. Yes, she ate babies, as witches do, but she was never a crone. It was part of the legend—she lured Hunters in, then throttled them as they had their way with her. Like a black widow spider.'

Winchester grimaced. 'Pleasant story then,' he said.

'Who told you of her, as if she were real?' said Lokirsson. 'Either someone is laughing at you, or something other is at work here. Who gave you her name?'

'A dead man, in his dying words,' said Godfrey. 'We have reasons to doubt the information, but I for one am somewhat convinced of the verity of the message. Especially if it is concerning a witch.'

'We came to you, guessing you would know of her. Were your father still alive, it would have been him we did seek out. It was our best estimate that he passed the art to you. He spoke of you a few times in our… dealings,' said Winchester.

'Excellent powers of deduction, messers,' said Lokirsson snidely, running a hand through his hair. He sighed then, resigned. 'I was not fond of my father, but I _am_ a witch-hunter born, as were all Father Lokirssons before me. Whether I desired to be so or no,' he added as an afterthought.

'Can you help us, then?' said Winchester.

Lokirsson gave a look of acceptance. 'I can aid you well enough.' He sighed. 'I dislike hunting anyone the way my father did. I know of the evil that is in witches, but…' his mouth twisted into a small frown. Then he blinked it away and smiled coldly at the men. 'Meet me at the end of Westmorland Street at ten o'clock tonight. Come armed.'

Godfrey and Winchester exchanged a glance. 'What exactly for, Father?' said Winchester.

Lokirsson raised an eyebrow. 'We are going into the belly of the beast, gentlemen—Blancminster.'


	3. 3: History and Interludes

A/N: I've edited this chapter. I still dislike it. As always, apologies for the brevity and un-beta'd nature of the chapter.

Reviews would be nice, y'know.

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_Chapter Three: History and Interludes_

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'I do not like this plan,' said Godfrey. '_Whitechapel?_ This is—'

'What, Castiel?' said Winchester. He stopped in the middle of the cobbled road on which the two men were walking to their meeting with Lokirsson. 'You doubt the good Father? Or are you too proud to trip to Whitechapel any longer?'

'It is not that,' said Godfrey through gritted teeth. 'I simply do not like stirring up the past, unlike you. Leave things settled and forgotten, Winchester. I am content where I am in life. I have carved my quiet corner well.'

Winchester laughed. It was a full-bodied laugh, deep and rich as his baritone singing voice. 'You are not content, my friend.' He laughed again. 'If you are perfectly gratified by your routine of sleeping, eating, drinking, the occasional book and interaction with the genteel, I am William the Conqueror, and you are certainly not Castiel Godfrey.'

Godfrey's eyes narrowed. 'I wish to forget my past. My contentment is a result of moving forward from my mistakes, not dwelling on them. Dwelling ignites the fire of hates burnt past, and does nothing for my disposition.'

Winchester gave Godfrey a long, sidelong look before speaking again. His look held emotion that Godfrey could, perhaps, once have read, but no longer. Absently he noticed that his companion's stiff, white collar was already black on the inside, likely from the heavy smog that clung to the city as surely as a lady's skirts cinch to her waist.

'It is true we were once the enemy,' said Winchester, finally, carefully considering his words in a manner Godfrey was unfamiliar with, 'And we made mistakes, those which we both live with now, and for the rest of our lives. There is no escaping our own histories—that much is true. But how have you moved forward if you refuse to acknowledge them? For whether you like it or no, what we did then is having an effect on the world of today.'

Godfrey's only reply was a low growl as he swept past Winchester, his hat tipped so low, the shadow it cast from the gas lamps obscured his face. The corner of Winchester's mouth twitched as he followed the other man through the streets towards their destination.

If asked, Godfrey would have denied that he had even considered Winchester's words—in reality, however deeply buried the thought was—he agreed. In the end, when it came to Dean Winchester, he always did. It had always been the root of his mistakes.

Some 20 years prior…

_Castiel with his cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling was the sweetest thing Dean had ever seen. When Castiel laughed this night, of all nights, it was open and honest, full-bodied and uninhibited. It was a small window to his true self, the actual personality of the man he knew as well as a brother. It was so authentic to the Castiel he only ever got hints of by day that Dean almost had to blink twice to believe was he was seeing. _

_Castiel, silencing any alcohol-slick thoughts that continued to bubble up in Dean's head, slammed his empty pint against the bar, smell of hops thick on his warm breath. They were close enough that Dean could see himself reflected in his eyes, flickering in the yellow, smoky candlelight._

_Dean started giggling a moment, the alcohol finally going to his head, for all his insistence of his 'strong constitution'. He clung to Castiel's arm as the sound of bells rang out, proclaiming it half-eleven. _

_'C'mon, Cas,' he slurred, cheek against the soft cotton of his companion's shirt. Castiel grinned and half-dragged him into the frosty winter air. They were not chilled overmuch; despite their thin jackets and nothing to cover their heads against the cold they were warm with the drink and each other's company._

_They stumbled along the streets towards the Thames, talking loudly and laughing easily and too much to be decent for the hour. _

_As the chorus of chimes rang out declaring the first stroke of midnight, Dean began to sing, loud and off-key, leaning heavily against the railing. 'Should old acquaintance be forgot…'_

_Castiel slung an arm around Dean's shoulders and joined in at 'never brought to mind...'_

_By the end of the verse they were near-bellowing and completely out of tune, despite both being fair singers when sober. After the chorus (where Dean purposely sang "Cas" instead of "Jo" to a fresh round of giggling) they realized they had forgotten the remaining lyrics. The singing died away until they were left just standing, watching their breaths steam out over the thick, dark waters of the river. The Thames didn't glisten, not with the dark clouds that lined the sky, completely blotting out the moon, but it seemed to shine dully all the same. _

_And when the younger man suddenly hugged the older, dark-haired man and mumbled into his shoulder something near unintelligible, but nonetheless endearing, Castiel couldn't help but smile at that. He felt something, then—protectiveness, perhaps, he told himself. But the roiling in his gut argued, and he ignored it, clinging tighter to Dean as the cold began to seep into his skin. There was something not quite familial in the way they embraced. It was a quiet, tenuous thread that hung, unspoken; it was born in the soft, smoky scent that filled Dean's nose as he buried his face in Castiel's thick, dark hair; it was in the lean lines of muscle Castiel could feel, burning beneath him, hot even through two layers of cotton and wool; it was born in the mutual understanding of one fellow to another, the shared knowledge of change and stagnation, of enmity and kin, of life and of death, and how all could be more than first appeared._

_Abruptly Castiel drew back, breaking the thread and looking at Dean through hazy, unfocussed eyes. _

_'Bobby will want us back,' he said. There was an awkwardness to his tone that hadn't been there before. As Dean looked, his expression was, once again, shuttered to him. _

_Disbelief crossed Dean's face fleetingly, almost lost in the depth of the night._

_'Cas?' he said, confusion clear in his voice. Castiel took another step backwards. _

_'Dean, we should go,' was all he said. _

_'Like fuck,' said Dean, turning back to the railing. 'We have the night, Cas! Hell, we have reason enough to be celebrating. Why can you not see it?' He tipped his head back, ignoring the moment that had passed between them, and sliding easily back into the habit of their daytime exchanges. 'Bobby can go sod himself. We've done more than he ever could, and you know it.'_

_Castiel shook his head, trying to shake away the bleary feeling that was the alcohol, threatening to tip him back into the relaxed state he'd been in earlier. 'He can't know, Dean. We can't tell anyone. You knew that when we started. It was our secret.'_

_Dean froze. Slowly he turned around, complete disbelief on his face. 'Are you serious?' he said in a low voice. _

_Castiel blinked and met his gaze straight on. It was clear now, despite the darkness. 'I am.'_

_'We're immortal, Castiel,' Dean bit out. 'We aren't—we _can't—_die. How can we _not _share this? Do you have any idea how many people this could help? I thought — I thought we were both in this to help people!' There was fury, now, hazing around him like an angry red cloud. He suddenly stepped forward, shoving Castiel hard so he staggered back. Dean continued, his voice rising. 'We were in this together, so we could make sure all these horrible things never happened! So that all the death would stop so people wouldn't loose mothers, and fathers and — and brothers…' He shoved Castiel again. 'Don't you dare go back on that, Cas. Don't you _dare.'

_Castiel didn't say anything for a moment. Then, still not speaking, he turned and began to walk away. As he did he began to laugh. It wasn't filled with mirth, nor was it light-hearted, or open, or any of the things his earlier merriment had held: it was cold, and thin. _

_'Castiel!' yelled Dean. He tried to follow the man, but was rooted to the spot by some unknown power. 'Castiel!' _

_'A happy New Year to you, Dean Winchester,' Castiel called over his shoulder. He began to whistle a tune, something which sounded very much like "Go No More a Rushing". Dean could not see that his eyes were no longer a natural blue, but had slid to a yellow that glowed bright as noon-day sun. _

_He chuckled softly as he walked. _


	4. 4: The Witch and Her Dog

A/N: This used to be part of the previous chapter, but it's more of a little interlude now, I guess. It needs to be in here, though. Ugh, I give up, I have no idea what I'm doing any more.

* * *

_Chapter Four: The Witch and her Dog_

* * *

'Easy as that,' she said, smiling warmly. 'Take care of yourself, Miss. Moore.' With a wave the sickly, pale woman walked quickly away, small tow-headed child clutched in hand, their thin clothes colourless with age. The pair rounded the sharp corner of the alley and were gone from sight a moment later. With a sigh she brushed her loose hair to the side and made her back down the steps to the small basement she rented. She stroked the door into locking behind her, soothing it smoothly with lyrical words.

'You know they're coming for you, Pam,' said the dog who was sorting clean-licked bones by the fire that burned cool and purple in the hearth, barely visible in the gloom. His tone was reasonable. He eyed her as she sat down in the rocking chair opposite, resting her feet on the small three-footed stool, kicking off a suspiciously round-bottomed cast-iron pot to make way for her boots.

The dog was a border collie mutt, slate-coloured, mangy and irregular-furred, intelligence nonetheless shining bright in its hazel eyes. 'It's dangerous to stay,' he continued. 'Reckless, even.'

The woman named Pam fiddled with the ends of her long hair, slouched very unladylike. 'I know it,' she said. 'But some things need to happen, Dog. A small, incompetent witch-hunter, and a few old men? You doubt me so easily. Fate is always a kinder mistress to me than you.' A small smile broke her expression as she flicked her blind gaze back to the dog. 'I'm not the one who got himself cursed with sentience.'

The dog rolled its eyes, and got to its feet with a clattering shake of his head. 'Every story needs a talking animal,' he muttered. 'What kind of witch would you be without one? I'm just lucky enough to get that title.' He shrugged slightly, nothing more than a kind of roll of his front legs, before going to snuffle around in the ash by the grate, searching for something. When he finally found a scorched bone amongst the debris, he picked it up carefully in his teeth and took it to Pam, his muzzle completely covered in soot. The witch smirked and took the charred bone from his mouth and rumpled his fur, showering ash everywhere.

'Appropriate, Ash,' she said. 'Dirty as your namesake.'

The dog barked a laugh. 'I try,' he said, diphthong of his northern drawl colouring his words, as he flicked his head. 'Beer now, sweet lady? A reward for the clever little doggie?'

'Drown yourself in it,' came the weary reply. He happily trotted off to the pantry in search of the promised alcohol.

Pam, however, began to examine the sheep's bone she'd put in the fire earlier. She pinched it hard and it shattered into the apron of her corn-flower blue dress, charred shards and charcoal catching on the woollen weave of the skirts. She frowned, examining the slivers, the crumbling marrow and the pattern of preserved bone, which had somehow escaped the heat of the fire.

It was… obscure. She was rather good at being what she was, but even Pamela Barnes wasn't omniscient. She knew who was after her, and why. The when however? Rather vague. And this wasn't being terribly enlightening, for all her effort. The powers she usually sought were being oddly silent about the matter. She considered other methods at her disposal. It was her _life, _after all. Hunters-born and alchemists were a potentially fatal mix, despite what she had said. The thought of them seeking revenge for a petty slight, a half-mistake, a _misunderstanding, _well… that put a tiny splinter of fear in her proverbial pinkie. A small, irritating scratch, but left unchecked and unattended to, could become a problem needing attention.

_Meddlesome men, _was a phrase that floated through her thoughts, _always cocking everything up. _

Despite the fact that she did so hate disembowelling chickens, perhaps it was a better option than mere trances and bone-trickery. Though the neighbours complained something fierce at the squawking sounds of slaughter...

She sighed heavily, running her hands through her mane of dark, thick hair, so noted in the stories. She'd taken care to be where she was now. Cutting gold threads, avoiding the power struggles and politics of men, moving on with her unnaturally long life. There had been nothing else for it. True, times had changed, and a burning and a good old-fashioned witch-hunt in a legal sense were highly improbable, but that would not stop a Hunter-born from bricking her in a chapel and setting her alight on hallowed ground. The thought made her shudder.

Pamela Barnes, in her life, had gotten by with only two things: a small amount of skill, and an uncanny amount of luck. The witch-hunter who had chanced enough to catch her the first time was a fool, and had lacked the skill enough to pin her down successfully. She'd hypnotized him with ease, and when he'd garbled the entire debacle to his whole village, the myth that had sprung around her simply grew as twisting and wild as ivy on pine-new trellis. The fear it had incited was not unwelcome, but she tired of it soon enough, and Salisbury in the reign of James the self-titled Witch-Finder was no place for an intelligent woman.

So Pamela had relocated, and had kept doing so, every fifty years or so. She liked to think that now, at least, she somewhat lived up to her reputation in terms of her skillset, regardless of her original birth as a White Witch (the history-writers need not know that).

Yet here she was, trying to divine the future from a bone. She snorted, flicking the pieces from her dress and leaning back in her chair with a huff. Fine. Come what may.

Her thoughts, were perhaps possessed a fortitude her unconscious self did not, for at the next moment there was a knock at the door. At that sound she may or may not have fallen out of her chair with a shriek of fright.

A small dog by the name of Ash may or may not have snickered at this softly, his fur dripping with blond beer.


End file.
